


If You Leave

by InfiniteFreedom



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Root had left, S.5 AU, Samaritan is still here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-03-31 04:31:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3964486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InfiniteFreedom/pseuds/InfiniteFreedom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Root aches.<br/>Root leaves.<br/>Root saves Shaw.<br/>Root leaves again.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The team is struggling with Samaritan, and the relationships between the members are strained.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Amidst all that, Sameen isn't sure whether this is what falling feels like and Root isn't sure if she can ever get up again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so here is the Prologue of S.5 AU sort of thing. 
> 
>  
> 
> It'll be angsty. I can only say that. 
> 
>  
> 
> I will update as soon as I can.

It takes about four more shots until Reese begrudgingly realizes his gun is emptied.  
He slams the metallic piece on the floor cursing, and contemplates whether or not he should go for the handgun lying a few feet away from him, out in the open.

He's already counted around seven agents across the room, which is more than he can handle by himself without proper armor. He knows that well, remembers thoroughly the training he's had and how he is supposed to act in this situation. Safety first always. 

If he gets shot, he will get weak, and in the end he will still be too outnumbered to face any imminent danger. Yet still, if he on the other hand stays hidden behind this crate for approximately another five minutes, not only will the wood get shattered to ash and eventually leave him unprotected, but there is also a chance that he dies from all the bullets flying real close to his head as every moment goes by. 

He crosses off those options. 

Looking around, thinking about Tomlin, one of the best agents he has ever met, he recalls the precise words. 

'Seconds away from death, there is no such thing as insane.'

Indeed there isn't. 

On that note -and some silent prayer- he dashes forward, moving towards the other wall behind the minimal protection of crates, running even after he's ensured the safety of the wall. 

He knows he doesn't have much time before they come after him, and keeps going, till a door to the right, further down the endless corridor appears on the horizon.

'Find a safe space, assess injuries, secure weapons, stay put.'

His steps quicken. 

John figures this is his chance, his last option, and the most effective one. It doesn't matter whether or not he manages to take out all of the assailants, there would be more coming from all other directions.

He takes the liberty of comparing the fact to Hydra, the creature with a horrifying ability to grow three vicious heads each time someone cut off one. He also recalls how Hercules beat it, burning the necks after severing the heads, but unfortunately, he is not stuffed with grenades to throw right now.  
Goddamn gangs. 

He freezes to the spot when the door opens ahead of him, and a bald fat man steps in his line of vision, carrying quite the shotgun. 

Reese has made a mistake, one that he is sure will cost him his life.

'Always keep your head clear.'

\ Fuck. But -hey.  
At least you get to see real, top quality equipment before you die \

//

Shaw's comm buzzes in her ear angrily, and she instantly taps on it. Her enemies aren't kind enough to keep quiet though, and soon enough her hands go back to shooting at them with a nano. 

She kind of wishes she had brought more than just guns into the fight, but of course, how were they supposed to predict something extreme like this would happen under such normal circumstances?

Shaw remembers exactly how simple this was going to be. 

'Get in, extract the victim, kneecap perps.'

Well turns out their victim, was in fact their perpetrator, who by the way got killed by five gangs cooperating to serve one goal, which now included wiping out THEM too. It appears as if someone else was held in the building, captive, another victim most probably, and they were a person of interest to both parties. 

Well except themselves. They didn't have time to save to go check, and she could sense the way Finch's breath hitched at finding out there was someone caught in the crossfire. 

As if on cue, Harold's panicked voice makes her crouch down and listen closely. "Ms.Shaw! You need to assist Mr. Reese!"

She can tell by his tone that it's serious, and she considers just how messed up John's side of the building must be for him to get in trouble. 

Tons. 

\ Shit \

 

Shaw counters, and a second later she's up and shooting at any available agent across the room. 

\ Fuck you all \

"Where is he?" she asks rather impatiently, not waiting for an answer before running off to the direction she had come from in the first place. 

If she knows John, then he's certainly done anything he could to protect himself, so it's only more worrying when Finch gives her an exact position.

That means he's not on the move.

Unless that is a hideout, Sameen Shaw recognizes it as the moments before he meets his maker. 

\ Shit. Shit. Shit \

//

She reaches her destination faster than she thought she would. It's ironic and funny, if one is aware of the circumstances. She should be passed out, dead even, and in the slightest possibility that she would be awake, she should be crawling. But she's not, she's 100% walking, and 90% achieving her goal.

She leaves the rest 10% in peace just in case they don't make it out alive in the end.

The ambience is thick, watery. It's cold, and that exact temperature is hitting her skin more than she likes it too. It's probably because of her earlier struggling, and the overdose she has been forced to take. 

\ Another time, I had been freezing, but I refused to dress up. My friend brought her a jacket, and put it on md despite my protests. It was cold, too cold, and we both would have died from hypothermia \

She instinctively finds herself rubbing her arms for a second or two, but again, her body seems to function aside her will.

It's almost frustrating, but she doesn't have the time to feel that. She knows she's strong, is aware of just how better her strength is right now compared to theirs.

They're tired, wasted. Unable to complete their mission. Unable to achieve their goal. 

But she can and she will. Because no matter how bad they will handle being helped by her, she has to do it, has to keep them out of harm's way. 

It's what's most desirable. 

The corners of her lips tug upwards at him as a knowing look dawns in her honey brown eyes. His own widen slightly, and although his forehead is covered with sweat, she can spot the way his vein pops out, just on top of his masculine, furrowed brow. He is hesitant,more than just simply dumbfounded - maybe angry - that much she can collect, but the apparent emptiness filling his palm means he has no choice, and the moment his switch flips is not much later.

The cold hits her again, crippling under the sleeves of her favorite leather jacket, traveling all the way up to the hair on her neck, in the form of shivers.

She believes it's nearly fair, because the night has been too kind to her for the last few months. 

Instead of a thermo coat, what warms her enough to get her muscles moving is a sound in her ear…a melody, written for her, and just for her to listen.

The Machine is a distraction,something to keep her on her feet, and an ally.

The Machine was a God.

But Root's changed, and she's not sure how she takes it anymore.

But never doubts her God. She doesn't have the power to.

¥○u nE€D T○ |€aV€, She speaks with her never changing metallic voice, her most preferable musical instrument…and who is she to deny Her gift? 

The shivers don't go away, not even as she steps over the dead man she just deprived the right of living to, and heads indifferently to the direction best leading them out of here.

When she momentarily drills her eyes into his, she knows she comes face-to-face with a judge, because he is screaming at her, screaming so loud nothing is heard. He judges her silently, but not as professionally as his master will.

She remembers one time her teacher had spent an entire day trying to explain their religion's basic sins. 

'To kill a person is to kill a living being made in God's image.' the Bible taught. 

And if it is true then she is a disgrace, for she murders God every day. 

Their God.

Her God too.

Disgrace.  
That's the word she uses.

Disgrace. 

//

Shaw's heartbeat takes a long break. 

It's bad, so so bad. She isn't too late, she can't be, because she's good at running, always has been.

Because she is fast and fluid, and she recalls the way her gym professor told her she is almost too fast. Shaw's head is not playing games with her when it reminds her of just how quick she can be.

\ I run 50 meters in 3 seconds, and that is fast \

Sameen holds onto that thought as she checks countless bodies, turning them around, each time prepared to see him.  
She soon found herself scrutinizing the victims even more, examining the bullet holes, attempting to recognize the technique.  
They weren't sloppy kills, and it strikes her hard, the notion that John would have shot at their kneecaps, wouldn't have been so accurate at ending their lives.

\ John, I decide, would have gone for the run, because Harold asks us not to kill, administrates us like a priest teaches the faithful, that there is another way \

Shaw has from a long time now admitted to herself she does care - perhaps just a little - but his words are sharp like a knife, even though he speaks them with a gentle tone.

She missed them back when she was captured, and tortured, and it's a different knife pain, one she knows is her ally.

A few of the gang members are in fact kneecapped, and she is embarrassed at the wave of relief flooding through her chest. She's on the right trail then, John Reese has laid his expensive shoes on this floor. 

She feels cool, but at the same time doesn't. Sam had learned to adapt to winter, with the endless cold and the streets half buried in snow. 

Sam learned to like winter, when Samaritan agents couldn't cross the frozen river to her fortress.

Her prison.

When she has time in summer, she doesn't like walking around her neighborhood, but she finds a strange calmness in watching the grandma across the street garden her tiny backyard.

It's better than watching ships ruin the sea all day from her cell's window.

She learns to appreciate the world, the weather, her city.

It's stupid really, how that old woman thinks she can preserve a garden in New York's busiest street, however, due to the privacy fence she recently built, she has more chances. 

Maybe that's why Shaw puts up with her, because she isn't a quitter.

Quitter.

What an ugly word.

In the spring, the Granny usually plants flowers in pots and vegetables there, where the sun is full and strong, unshaded by the huge buildings, and it's Shaw's cue to step away from her kitchen's window, because that is all too colory for her.

In the fall, sometimes, when she doesn't have to run around in search of a number, Shaw pulls on her old red sweater, and watches as wind knocks down whatever leaves there are on the garden's trees, brown and crinkly, drifting all over the yard. That usually puts a slight smile on her face, and a scowl on the old lady's. 

But winter makes life a prison, cold and gray and gloomy. 

Misery, Sameen thinks.

She deals with that easily.

 

Her mind reels with all the plausible scenarios. Reese isn't alone, and those perfectly measured shots aren't his.

So whose are they? 

Who else came into this fight, and killed the bad guys? Was it someone they knew? Maybe someone they expected? But no, it can't have been Fusco, because he is with his son, and other than that Finch would have told her if there was another runner in the course.

Pun unintended. 

Shaw wishes she had time to get a better look at the deadly wounds, categorize the bullets even, but goes on without stopping. Only paying attention to the dead men scattered all over the corridors, she is half expecting to see his motionless form lying somewhere in between his enemies'.

He would have died a fighter. Like Carter. Like Shaw. Almost.

 

\ A thought comes to my mind, but I push it away as soon as my brain processes it \

 

She keeps striding through the endless maze for over half an hour, following the trail of bodies that is there as if actually leading her somewhere. Sam once again realizes this can't have been John, so expertly leaving her clues behind, but figures whoever it is, they are on her side, and she can be at ease.

Shaw finally ends up in front of a door, and when she without hesitation opens it, her vision is filled with the sight of a man holding up a gun, pointing it at a woman's head.

\ I have to be the hero again \

 

She thinks, but the suit dancing slightly along with the winterish wind, reminds her of something familiar and sure.

The man, she realizes, is Reese.

He turns his head to her, and she sees the determined look in his eyes, the way a fire has overcome his senses.

Sameen wonders what causes it, and so she turns her eyes on the third person inside the alley.

 

Her body numbs, her mind goes rigid.

Her eyes focus and unfocus on someone new, yet not unknown. She feels her blood pulsate uncomfortably underneath her skin.

This can't be happening, her mind produces.

 

She hasn't seen this woman for five months. Hasn't seen this face in so long.

The woman, she deduces, is a psychopath. A quitter. A someone she has the right to hate with all her might.

The woman…

Is Root.

//

When he was partners with Tomlin, he would always make sure to read his face. Tomlin was a confusing man, bordering on unpredictable, and as much as Reese acknowledged his skills, he just couldn't handle working with someone unstable. Agent Tomlin was unstable for sure, nonetheless effective. 

So John had learned to tell the difference between a subtle frown and a withering glare, a tentative smile and a half smirk. 

Tomlin glared at him when he wanted John to step out of the way, frowned when something had went terribly wrong -because when something was simply wrong Tomlin made sure not to show it on his face- , smiled tentatively when John made the right decision at backing him up and saving his ass, smirked when he knew something that John didn't. 

He knows well, oh so well, what those smirks mean. 

His fingers aren't wavering as they abruptly wrap around a dead man's previous gun, and lead it straight to her head. 

He's done it once before, but he hasn't done it in a very long while.  
He silently hopes he doesn't have to use his trigger finger, just as he hopes she can't see through him, see how he's struggling to be tough on the inside.

She wears that smirk on her face, and even though he would once allow the uncertainty of it all, he knows better than to assume she is Tomlin. 

She's not, she's Root.

Root. 

\ You can't kill Root \

 

An old friend. An ally. Someone that months ago became nothing more than an open wound.

 

\ You don't do feelings, especially not with her, yet you can't deny it stung a little \

 

Out on the loose, doing whatever the hell The Machine asked, with no remorse.

She helps, as far away from them as possible.

He knows she does.

He knows her.

\ You hope you do \

Root that left his boss, left them at the hardest of times. 

Root that just cared too much, but then didn't care enough.

Enough to stay after all.

After saving Finch instead of the mission, after disobeying her Machine, after…

 

After saving Sameen.

 

Root that came to your saving, his mind remarks, and he'd rather he didn't remember. 

 

He tries to push it out of his brain, that small nagging thought whispering at him, urging him to not stay mad at her and to trust her, even though she lost that trust a while ago. 

 

He tries so hard to ignore the way her sharp eyes widen ever so lightly at his movement. 

Those eyes he saw once bleed, beg him to help her find the person most important person in her life.

 

He's seen them scare kings and lords of evil away, and now they widen at the sight of a gun. 

 

As if she wasn't expecting of him to treat her like this, like a threat, an enemy that has to forcefully cooperate. She's not and he knows, but she's unstable, and unstable people aren't good out there. 

She's a betrayer, almost a quitter.

 

She's unstable like Tomlin was, he realizes, and he died, although he was the best agent he had ever met.

 

Unstable is not good, he knows it like his name. 

 

She still has that smirk on her face, and what earlier appeared to be hurt in her dark eyes, is replaced by mere amusement. 

 

It reminds him of old times. When things weren't this way.

 

He's a bit angry, at the way she seems like she forgot about all of them.

\ You know she didn't. All the unknown callers and midnight messages \

 

A door opens not far away, and then dark chocolate eyes meet his, further inside the alley, confused and surprised. 

 

\ This is not good, this will end bad \

 

She doesn't judge unlike him.

 

He hopes she doesn't see.

 

He hopes she doesn't look and see.

 

 

She does anyway.

 

 

He sees Shaw turn those eyes on her, the menace among them, and he knows she sees it too, because her face steels, and her jaw clenches. 

 

She freezes to the spot, and she misses a breath - he can tell.

 

 

He reads expressions, Reese, and he's good at it, just like he had taught himself with Tomlin. 

 

This expression, he eventually  
concludes, is one of anger. 

 

Shock. 

 

 

Hurt.

 

Pure, incurable. 

 

But.

 

On the other hand, he doesn't need to turn his eyes on his old partner to feel the flinch.

 

The pain Root had it seems, never went away.

 

The wind carries their breaths away, but no air escapes Root's lungs.

 

Still. The hacker doesn't turn to face her, just knows it's her, because Reese knows - The Machine is there to tell her.

 

He thinks she'll break. But her eyes hold his.

 

And in a moment, he watches as castle sized walls build up in her sorrowful eyes.

 

 

She would break.

 

If she didn't use a shield.

 

 

"Hello Sameen." she says faux -cheerfully, never averting her gaze from him, and he can practically feel the fire emanating from Shaw's murderous eyes on the woman's profile.

 

 

He decides he would never want to have to extinguish that fire.

 

\ You had to do it five months ago, and it wasn't easy \

 

Shaw is shocked yet again.

Reese can read her mind.

 

'How dare she?' she must think.

 

He's certain the urge to shoot her comes to Shaw full force.

 

"Root." his partner spits with venom, and he's satisfied to notice the smirk waver on the hacker's mouth. 

 

Emotion.

 

\ You thought you lost her there \

 

"What the hell are you doing here?"  
Shaw's voice is blank, colorless.

 

He wonders if she hurts, if she finally feels her façade crack after all those months of carefully crafting it.

 

John knows Shaw cared. About Root more than anyone.

 

In her own way.

 

She was hurt then, even though she didn't show it, when she realized Root wouldn't be there.

 

\ "Take care of her." a broken woman had told you and Fusco had wisely answered "You could do that yourself if you stayed." \

 

She's hurt now, as she sees Root play this time off as if it was nothing, as if she doesn't really give a crap.

 

\ You want to tell her she does, she gives more than a crap, because you are here and you saw how Root just acts a role \

 

As if it was all a game.

 

\ You're hurting as well, that's how you know \

 

Shaw voices his own question, and he once again contemplates whether or not she was sent here to save him, or that was just philanthropy.

 

Did she check up on them from wherever she was around the world?

 

Did she know how everyone was affected by her leaving? 

 

Did she know how Finch thought he was the one to drive her away?

 

\ You don't want him to feel guilty, because you remember it was her choice. You were the last person she saw, you remember \

 

Was she sent here, did she want to come, or is this pity?

 

The latter angers him more than he would ever let in on, because this woman he ended up respecting while Shaw was missing should never even have to do philanthropy.

 

Not to him.

 

They respect each other.

Or that's what he thinks. 

 

He hopes his disdainful scowl and the twitch of his trigger finger don't betray him, though by the way a smug glint glitters her eyes, he knows they do. 

 

Maybe she doesn't. Maybe Root has changed once again, has thrown everything away because she couldn't handle the pain.

 

\ You know that's the reason, and you feel sorry for her, because she doesn't deserve the pain. However you didn't deserve it either. No one from that team of misfits did \

 

"To save his ungrateful ass apparently." she indicates with her hand vaguely, and he cocks the tip of the gun warningly, causing her to raise her palms in the air as if surrendering. 

 

Ungrateful?

 

\ She left, but it's okay, if she tries now, you will understand, because you don't hate her that much. You hope she gets then that you won't shoot her… or that you don't want to \

 

With a glance at Shaw, he knows her mind is going overdrive. 

 

The frown. 

Something is really wrong. 

 

"The Machine sent you here?"

 

The question asks a million things.

Are you back?  
Did you come because you care?  
Is this some trick?

 

 

Root haphazardly turns to her.  
This is it. 

 

You look at her warningly and perhaps you're pleading for her own good.

 

\ You wish she won't say the wrong thing \

 

Root stops at the sight of her, bites her cheek, and the smirk falters.

 

\ You know she'll say the wrong thing then \

 

"Duh."

 

Crap. 

 

Shaw's fiery eyes come back to view, however the woman is prepared and doesn't waver. 

 

Reese takes a moment assessing her, the way her body is not as proud as before, the way she has paled the littlest, and the teeny tiny drops of sweat lingering next to her eyebrow. 

 

It's his turn to frown, unsure of what caused this change in demeanor. Was it Shaw's unforgiving dark orbs?

 

It could be.

 

Of course it could.

 

\ Root cares about her \

 

He inspects her repeatedly from where he stands. 

 

Maybe something else? 

 

 

He urges his mind to force forward any memory he has of these symptoms. He reads people that's what he does. Every aspect of them. The sweat, the slump, the even whiter than before skin. 

 

She's hurt, he realizes, but not visibly yet not just psychologically, because he would have seen, he would have known because that's what he does, he observes, and there is no blood anywhere, or a physical weakness. 

 

 

It takes him some time, but he's not stupid, and he puts two and two together soon. 

 

 

Root, he understands now, was being tortured. 

 

Root... was the person of interest. 

//


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'How did we get here?  
> I used to know you so well.'
> 
> Decode by Paramore.

/

Her eyes have no color. 

 

 

Sameen can't see because she isn't looking.

She remembers a honey, light brown shade hugging the roundness of a black center, but she's not sure it's still the same. 

She's not sure it still exists.

 

( Those eyes used to dig holes in her own much darker ones )

 

The world seemingly stops moving around her, like an outer force bursting her little bubble, that mere hallucination. 

 

( That is what it's been from the start )

 

From the mirror across the wall she can tell she doesn't look at her either, her reflection that of a woman with all the universe's burdens on her shoulders.

 

A mask, a soldier that has lost his drive to fight, that pulls the trigger because it's the only thing that's left to do.

 

Sameen knows and it infuriates her even more, because she had more, she could have stayed and she would have been a person with purpose, the Root she was always meant to be.

 

( That Root died so long ago, she knows now that the woman doesn't even spare her a glance )

 

She knows, and she wonders why she's still here, and in the end gets up and takes the backdoor to a street she hopes might lead her somewhere as far away from here as possible.

 

( She absently wonders if she'll ever be able to breathe again )

 

//

 

( You breathe again )

 

Gone and out of the door she is and you try not to exhale too loud, fearing that it will carry through the wind and in her ears, and she mustn't understand how affected you are by this.

 

It's been so long, too long ever since you last saw these eyes, two supermassive black holes.

 

No time could ever be enough for you to be prepared to face them.

 

She's the same, but not as pale as then, and you're satisfied to notice that the bruises have disappeared off her beautiful face. 

 

( Of course they have )

 

It's been too long.

 

There's pain in your head and more pain somewhere dangerously close to THAT spot on your chest, and it kills you slowly that you recognize how one of them is a different kind of sting.

 

( You thought it would be gone by now )

 

You stare out of the window and you ask yourself if you just want to get a glimpse of this town, the place once closest to home, or if you silently wish there's black hair and black coat floating along with the air in the corner somewhere.

 

( But then again who are you kidding )

 

You shake your head as if the idea can roll off of it.

 

It's almost dawn and there's no sun on the horizon, the clouds and grey skies mocking you.

 

The library is barely warm enough, and another question pops up in your mind before you have the time to process it.

 

"What happened to the subway?" you ask indifferently, hoping that the way you do care does not show to Her.

 

Seconds pass and you guess she won't answer, so you shut your eyes tight and pretend it doesn't bother you, how much has changed in your little gang since you've left.

 

The pain in your head engulfs your senses and you open them again, biting down your cheek to distract yourself from the effects of the drugs the captors gave you.

 

You want to ask Her if they're delaying their little meeting on purpose, to torture you as well for all the time you've been a ghost.

 

But from the lack of answer to your previous administration you counter silence will remain as it is.

 

It's futile to try and cover this huge gap within minutes, futile and pointless.

 

They'll never forgive you and perhaps after some time you can convince yourself it doesn't matter.

 

( It does and you blame your weak Goddamn heart for it )

 

$€C○nD@r¥ #€adQuARt€R _ } is what you hear instead, and choose not to pursue the matter.

 

Apparently they had managed to keep Samaritan away from this place long enough to rebuild it and create a blindspot. 

 

Clever.

 

There are footsteps to your right and your eyes raise just in time to meet his in a silent battle of wills.

 

His hand clenches and unclenches at his side, and you wish he would threaten you or indicate something but as opposed to Shaw, he has always been this silent, always smoldering with masculine brows and rocky eyes, and he makes it that much more difficult for you now.

 

 

( He got caught in between and you pushed him there )

 

It's another minute of silence and him, and then next thing you know, he nods curtly and averts his gaze, sparing a glance around the room.

 

It's an unspoken question and you know what it is even if he doesn't blink at you.

 

( That spot on your chest aches again and you believe you might need to remove it to stop the pain )

 

Black coat and black hair and pitch black eyes and you look down because you see her everywhere now.

 

( No time could have ever been enough for this )

 

It seems to be enough for him because a second later he's off and out the door she walked not long before.

 

( Black coat and black hair and pitch black eyes and she's everywhere now )

 

( You stop breathing once again )

 

//

 

"Having fun there Shaw?"

 

The knife she throws to the trunk of the tree cuts through the air like razor meeting skin, and he can almost hear the whooshing sound pass by his right ear, as he comes to lean against the innocent target.

 

She sets her jaw and walks towards him stiffly, her eyes betraying nothing but the wildest of fires. "Sure." she states and that's that, with a voice dipped in mild emotion, and hands decisively grabbing the knife and pulling it out of its resting place.

 

He only watches as she rolls her shoulders, turns back around, and goes to aim again.

 

It doesn't seem like she has an actual target, but he guesses she attempts to hit dead center. 

 

One. Two. Three.

She does.

 

He clears his throat and crosses his arms in front of his chest. Feeling the fabric of his suit brush against his skin sends a shiver down his spine, but it's nothing compared to the one he gets when he sees her look away and bite her inside cheek, hands on her hips and head cast away.

 

It's sad, how she can feel it all in a different volume than anyone else, contained in a much smaller confined space, that's waiting to burst open, and he thinks, from the way she doesn't move to retract the knife, it'll happen soon.

 

She shuffles her feet.

 

"He's gonna let her stay isn't he?"

 

He inhales and sighs. "He thinks it was his fault - "

 

"Well he shouldn't." her voice is sharp, her eyes penetrating his in a beat. "She chose to leave."

 

Emphasizing on 'chose', she holds his gaze a while longer, before turning away and kicking a rock half - heartedly. 

 

"Not like I give a shit anyway." she rushes to add.

 

He 'chooses' not to push that particular matter and instead leans off the tree to grab the knife himself. 

 

Contemplating what he should do, he attempts to find the most suitable words for his next inquiry. 

 

Finch as expected was utterly adamant on the matter, his mind set on helping Root and letting her stay. 

 

John himself isn't sure what he wants - what is right. 

 

'It's Root, Mr.Reese. She's saved our lives countless times, she's gone through hell and back for us and what we believe in, and yet here we are still debating on whether or not we should help her?'

He was upset and determined, and John's only answer to that was a low and firm 'She left when we needed her the most.'

 

'Everyone has moments of weakness John.'

 

He looks up to her and extends the knife towards her hand, as she walks closer.

 

"She's been tortured," her eyes snap up to meet his dangerously, "and he wants you to check her."

 

She doesn't miss a beat. "Hell no."

 

He sighs. "Shaw. She needs help. Right now is not time for grudg-"

 

"Oh please!" she snorts patronizingly. "As if I could care less what she does and doesn't need."

 

He thinks back to the way he used to try building walls himself. 

 

"Sure Shaw. I believe you." he states and he can't help the slight snark that seeps in his voice. 

 

She growls. "This isn't personal John. She left US. All of us," she gestures vaguely between them and then scowls,"and it's just that I don't do well with quitters. So you can tell Finch to hire a doctor, although we all know it's going to be one hell of a waste."

 

She grabs the knife angrily and stuffs it in its holster on her ankle. 

 

"He can't risk compromising our position."

 

John scrutinizes her for a second, takes in her stiff posture, the tense shoulders, the angry furrow of her brow.

 

He also detects the hesitation and indecision, her mind and her heart conflicting hard behind those hooded eyes. 

 

In the end she huffs.

 

"Fine." she raises an accusing finger at him, "but after this, you're not mentioning her again."

 

John is not a matchmaker. John won't die if these two don't resolve the unresolved tension. 

 

He's just sad of how they ended up. 

 

He shrugs and moves forward. "My pleasure." he states with that gravelly voice of his. 

 

And it's only half a lie. 

 

//

 

"It's been a long time, Ms. Groves."

 

She inhales some dust from a book she has picked out of her old cage. 

 

( The whole place reminds you of a cage suddenly )

 

The dust makes her cough and it's painful, her lungs clenching uncomfortably, under the influence of all these drugs. 

 

If this torture happens another time, she knows it'll be her last. Her heart can't take any longer. 

 

When she formed a plan to get all her numbers in one room, she never thought that her captor would use that exact torturing technique. 

 

Or the fact that The Machine would alert the Mayhem Twins.

 

She wasn't aware until the last minute.

 

( She told you and you would have screamed at her if it wasn't for the Barbiturate injection at the time )

 

( You can handle yourself )

 

Hoping that the pain doesn't show on her face, she turns and gives him a playful sigh.

 

"I'd hardly call it that Harry," she says and seeing him after all this time feels only a little less devastating than seeing Shaw, "it's only been a few months really." 

 

She speaks the lie that doesn't exactly come from the words, but the tone, like these twenty one weeks haven't been the most agonizing in her life. 

 

( They have not actually, but you'd rather not think about THAT time, too much blood and loss and black eyes and black hair and black coats and a kiss )

 

She turns around and places the book back to its rightful place. 

 

Perhaps if she doesn't see his face, his words won't be so effectively influencing. 

 

Her good ear picks up a gulp. "It's been half a year."

 

( No in fact it hasn't. You've been gone for exactly 147 days and half a year is 168 days )

 

Root chooses not to face him, instead opting to browse through books she has almost completely read during her time here. 

 

( You wonder if his voice would remain so kind, were you to tell him that you weren't planning to save John, that she asked you to. You care about him, but his eyes are too piercing, he was never part of YOUR plan )

 

"I see you managed to renovate this old wreck." she states and her voice comes out just as flat as she wants it - needs it to be. 

 

( It seems like your plan had only involved a little firecracker for some time now )

 

 

He walks closer and she can feel the presence lurking behind her, like the judge towers over the guilty. 

 

Her head aches, her heart works at its own accord, and her eyes feel like they are inside a microwave. 

 

She thinks she's keeping it pretty much together on the outside though. His eyes don't get the time to catch hers, because she's afraid, as if he's Medusa and if she stares in those orbs behind small glasses, she'll petrify. 

 

( You might, you're not sure what's real and what's not anymore )

 

 

"We were worried about you."

 

( There's an image that flashes in front of your eyes, the man in the suit staring at the back of the car you're driving to the airport with )

 

She tries, tries so hard but the question tumbles out before she can stop it. "Who's 'we' Harold?"

 

When she does finally turn to face him, she's certain he can see right through her, but she'll be damned if she breaks in front of him. 

 

He doesn't hesitate. "Me, Mr. Reese, Lionel… Ms. Shaw - "

 

"Are you gonna get me a doctor Harry? I'm not feeling very well." she interrupts because she doesn't want to hear the rest of it. 

 

( Even just the name makes you shiver )

 

She interrupts, and if the words don't do the job then her expression most certainly does. 

 

( Stoic. You're trying to be stoic )

 

The wind shifts around them and in between, words and thoughts he had in his mind apparently falling through the cracks of all this unforgettable time. His eyes are glassy, the gleaming appearance of light reflecting off of the white surrounding his light blue irises. 

 

She guesses but can not confirm, whether her own eyes look the same. 

 

( From the burning you feel, you suppose they do )

 

Harold looks lost, that much she can tell, his body a frozen statue and his lips twitching, hesitating. 

 

 

Maybe they decided they'll let her die. Because she will, she won't survive on her own with a heart running miles a minute and a head that might as well have been hammered repeatedly. 

 

 

Maybe they'll let her die and maybe she won't do anything about it. 

 

( You're not sure you wouldn't let you die yourself )

 

He nods all of a sudden. 

 

"Same injections?" he asks and his voice sounds more composed when he speaks.

 

"Barbiturate and amphetamine." she states.

 

He seems to digest it for a second, and then he moves to his desk. 

 

So they are leaving her after all.

 

It causes a disgusting feeling to sink in her stomach, and along with the horrible nausea and headache she thinks she might throw up.

 

It's only then that she listens to Finch's voice. "Mr. Reese?"

 

 

She dreads the other end of the conversation. 

 

//

 

"So they just wanted information out of you." Reese states ridiculously for the umpteenth time this last hour, and she can practically feel the annoyance rolling off of Root in waves.

 

( Actually it's the first and only thing that reminds you of the old Root )

 

Returning to the library, she didn't waste anytime on cheap rants and from the look on Root's face she knew there was nothing to say. It infuriated her that much more, and she had to fight the urge of letting Root die.

 

 

She silently and stonily resumes disinfecting Root's needle spots - they didn't even do that - and tries to ignore the way her own spine shivers every time she touches the hacker's skin.

 

 

If Root notices she doesn't say a thing, like Sameen doesn't exist in front of her, and even though Shaw isn't really enough in control of her anger to chat with this quitter, she doesn't know what to do with this seemingly zombified version of Root.

 

 

She just wants to get done with the treating, and then get the hell out of here.

 

Root sighs and it fills the air with a sense of desperation and exhaust. "Yes John, I told you, it's irrelevant."

 

 

From the corner of her eye, Shaw sees Finch start to talk.

 

Instead it's again John's voice that echoes in the walls.

 

"It's relevant if they hunt you down specifically Root."

 

It's not necessary for Shaw to look up to Root's eyes to see the frustration and slight anger surfacing, and the next second, she presses the disinfectant dipped gauze harsher on her arm.

 

 

Root hisses and gasps, but does not acknowledge Sameen anyway.

 

 

( You think you've never wanted to punch her more )

 

She takes a deep breath that momentarily rises Sameen's palm along with her arm.

 

"It's not relevant," she repeats as if trying to teach a slow kid, "at least not the way you mean it." she adds.

 

"Explain." Harold orders and Shaw feels Root's flinch before she sees it.

 

She suddenly feels so out of comfort, touching and treating Root like old times (with a hundred times more cruelty) and staying out of a conversation that is everyone's main concern. 

 

Shaw feels like storming out.

 

"Two months ago. I failed to save a number at Oslo." she looks away like replaying a distant memory. Sameen's precise hands don't stop. "He was Fred Jenkin's brother."

 

Harold frowns just as Shaw finishes wrapping up Root's right arm.

 

"Our victim's name."

 

"Your perpetrator." Root insists and scoffs, she attempts to raise one hand to the bridge of her nose in frustration but after some movement the pain renders her still. 

 

 

Shaw does not appreciate that, and presses the arm to back her ribcage. 

 

 

She looks up with a deadly glare, and even though she doesn't expect any sort of reaction, what she faces are two penetrating eyes, inquisitive and empty.

 

Her eyes have a color.

 

It's just faded.

 

The air stills and Root freezes along with it, her eyes darting between Shaw's, with a way they're not supposed to - a way they have no right to look at her with.

 

Fury flashes up Shaw's arms and tears at invisible wounds, wounds she'll never admit to having even to herself.

 

( Wounds you believe you'll never heal. Wounds that aren't something you can patch up and press antiseptic at. Wounds that remind you of a car crash and a fire and a kind fireman widening his eyes at the request of a sandwich )

 

"My numbers were the gangs and Jenkins, my captor. Your number was just the guy who had me. The Machine never clears to you whether they're victims or perpetrators." her voice seems to spin the world again, and Shaw spurs into action, getting up quickly and stepping away.

 

 

Root looks unfazed as she goes on with her monologue. "But she does to me. Both numbers were perpetrators."

 

John grunts and leans back on the desk. "But Jenkin was also a victim. We were supposed to protect him."

 

Root scoffs. "That's what you don't get."

 

 

The atmosphere almost turns hostile as Reese stares Root down with a mix of things Shaw identifies to. 

 

 

"Well then why don't you stop talking in riddles and explain Root?" Shaw's angry voice draws all attention on her but she doesn't care. 

 

She's stayed out of this convo too long anyway. 

 

There's a minute silence and then Root is getting up. "You watched the number, figured The Machine gave it to you because he was threatened by a gang."

 

"Apparently more than one." Harold notes but Root is quick to silence him. 

 

"That's the deal Harold. The Machine gave me both numbers and I know she didn't give his because he was a victim, She gave it because he was going to kill me."

 

The words hit them like a ton of bricks, Shaw can tell. 

 

They'd realized by now that Root was the one in captivity but now that she has a say in it, it all seems too real. 

 

 

At Finch's surely questioning eyes Root shrugs. "He thought I held information for who killed his brother." she waves her hand around.

 

 

She turns to Reese and Sameen can detect the tone of exasperation in her voice when she adds, "now that was relevant."

 

 

Shaw considers all that Root has said til now silently, attempting to find out what she's trying to hint at. Root doesn't seem the least bit bothered by the situation, that she was about to be killed by not only one man but -

 

Wait.

 

"What about the five gangs?" Sameen asks and she sounds just as detached as she'd like - as she is.

 

 

Root squints. "No they wanted me dead because I had to steal from them some time ago."

 

If Shaw had the mood she'd be crushing Root's head on the brick wall right now.

 

"But our number," Finch finally speaks again, "if The Machine did not perceive him a victim as you claim, then who was supposed to protect him from the five gangs?"

 

"Well your Machine did give Root the gangs' numbers as perpetrators." John carefully states as an addition, although til now he has been a little less silent than Sameen.

 

"Uh uh." Root's voice, inquisitive and suggesting causes a deadly glare to settle on her.

 

The hacker circles round the table and traces the wood with her index finger. "She didn't give them to me so that I could protect him, She did it to protect me."

 

Harold winces and John frowns, as Shaw remains still, trying to decipher the meaning.

 

"Do you realize what you're implying Ms.Groves?" Harold's voice is wavering and it doesn't surprise Sameen one bit.

 

 

The insinuation bears heavily on him, that The Machine deliberately ignored a person in danger for the sake of another.

 

He taught it to value life for what it is, people are equals and there are no discriminations.

 

Root merely shrugs and continues her path down the library as Shaw mulls it over again and again.

 

 

It makes sense, The Machine would give Root both their numbers so that she would protect herself, and of course alert Harold on one, because Root wouldn't be able to handle it by herself. 

 

However, The Machine, as Root suggests did not give even one clue as to what the number was.

 

Jenkins, Sameen and Reese followed him around just to realize he was the one in danger but the hacker says The Machine never planned on them trying to save him.

 

( No one. No one was supposed to save him, that is what Root is not saying )

 

It gives Shaw a headache, and something so simple just becomes too confusing. 

 

With a hand on her temple she sighs. "Okay, okay. What if The Machine knew we were going to save him anyway?"

 

"She didn't."

 

Shaw doesn't look at Root but she doesn't need to. Her voice implies a million things that no one is ready to handle.

 

Root sits up on the arm of the leather couch and crosses her arms. "What I'm saying is that whether you like it or not, whether that's what you attempted to do in the end or not," she adds as an afterthought, "She never cared about your number dying or not."

 

 

Harold's sharp eyes meet hers just as she looks down.

 

"She was just keeping me alive."

 

 

//

 

The evening is silent, peaceful.   
There are stars in the sky and Root feels as if she's being mocked, drowning her own pit of emotions without anyone in the world having the same feeling.

 

Suddenly the fact that she's all alone goes to a whole new level.

 

The talk she had with the team was exhausting, difficult to say the least.

 

The Machine let someone die.

 

It didn't matter if Harold's pets tried, what mattered was that the man was not included in The Machine's plan.

 

Like many others.

 

Root had not told Finch of course, but she had noticed, how some people who needed her help never got to reach her ear as social numbers.

 

Always irrelevant. 

 

But it was like a new category, and it was the only theory Root had.

 

It's like The Machine leaves people out because they're just useless. Because there's no salvation for them.

 

One man in Berlin, another in Marseilles. Root has counted eleven, and Jenkins is the twelfth. 

 

She's unsettled, as The Machine reminds her of someone else, someone she used to be before she had purpose.

 

 

( There are people that don't matter. But all people matter, that's what she taught you )

 

Root sighs and sips her hot coffee, her arm still sore from the torture as she raises the cup.

 

She tries not to let her thoughts roam towards Sameen, and the way her calloused hands worked harshly on each wound, each separate gauze presses even more tightly than the previous one.

 

 

Root doesn't know if it was supposed to express hostility, hatred, but it kept her grounded in some way, the pain.

 

 

A punishment she deserved, and if someone had to be the executioner then Root would always ask for Sameen.

 

Only this time she hadn't, and she wonders how John got the short woman to treat her.

 

Obviously from Shaw's tense shoulders and smothering glares, helping Root was definitely not a priority. 

 

( You feel hollow but relieved, because if she hates you then it's easier to pretend you don't give a shit as well )

 

All the relationships Root had once formed with all these misfits have crumbled to pieces, and it doesn't get any better when The Machine instructs her to stay.

 

 

¥°U Ha▼€ To ₩¤rK T°g€tHeR, she says.

 

Root can only steel her heart in return.

 

 

//

 

9:47 p.m

 

A payphone rings on 23rd street.

 

Harold Finch stares at it blankly, hesitantly.

 

With a grudge he picks it up on the third ring.

 

#  
Sierra.  
Oscar.   
Romeo.   
Romeo.   
Yankee.   
#

 

His chest tightens. 

 

#  
Foxtrot.   
Oscar.  
Romeo.  
Golf.  
India.  
Victor.  
Echo.

Mike.  
Echo.  
#

 

It says.

 

#  
Foxtrot.   
Oscar.  
Romeo.  
Golf.  
India.  
Victor.  
Echo.

Mike.  
Echo.  
#

 

It repeats.

 

Harold Finch winces.

 

 

 

#  
Foxtrot.   
Oscar.  
Romeo.  
Golf.  
India.  
Victor.  
Echo.

Hotel.  
Echo.  
Romeo.  
#

 

//

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have any questions shoot me in the comments.


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'We are swimming into deep seas.  
> And I can't navigate the stars like my father.'
> 
>  
> 
> Navigate by Band Of Sculls.

It's 6:30 a.m when Sameen's alarm clock goes off next to her ear. It's early, and the continuous beeping is rather annoying, but she knows the sooner she wakes up, the better. Her morning routine is something that has never changed throughout her life, and a very much needed constant during her time under Samaritan's hold. A habit, a distraction that kept her grounded, moving.

 

She tries not to think about what else used to be a constant during that time.

 

( Something to do with a memory of wavy hair and Cheshire smiles )

 

Getting up proves a bit challenging, due to lack of brain and body cooperation. Half of her urges her legs to move and begin basic work out, the other half tries to catch up with all the blurry visions of yesterday. When she finally gets it together, and her head aches from recalling all the latest developments, she falls down almost eagerly to start the push ups.

 

One, two, three…

 

She wonders how today will play out.  
No actually she dreads how today will play out. Another day at the office for sure, but one full of awkwardness and worrying about The Machine, from Harold's part at least. He had been pretty shaken up after the talk with Root, he probably didn't sleep at all.

 

Seven…

 

Will she stay?

 

Eight…

 

There's a feeling swirling at the bottom of her stomach at the thought of her, of Root and how completely detached she seemed. It's been months, so much time yet it feels like yesterday since that day in Georgia. 

 

Nine, ten…

 

Foggy memories of smoke and guns blazing come back to mind, of a chair and a figure crashing the door, rushing to her and -

 

'Sameen?!' the woman had shouted, 'Sam you need to get up!'

 

Eleven…

 

'We don't have time! Get up!'

 

Her right arm twitches just as it did then, but instead of getting up, this time it results in faltering, missing her pace and falling face first on the cold floor.

 

She curses and berates herself, and a split second after she's up with a hand running through her hair. She looks down at her feet, contemplates restarting as her arms tense and untense. 

 

In the end, she decides that maybe it's better if she goes for sit ups - exercise that does not involve the possibility of falling. She doesn't have to show up to the library til nine o'clock anyway, which makes for a fair enough amount of time to include both push ups and a breakfast.

 

Without further ado, and her mind shut tightly down, she sits down and takes up the alternative exercise. Push ups will come last.

 

Nonetheless, Sameen has done only eleven push ups by the time nine o'clock arrives.

 

//

 

All traces of a storm from yesterday have disappeared, with blue skies stretching endlessly and the temperature hovering just around hot.  
Beyond her, New York's streets are busy as usual, however calm, the windows of buildings and shops mirroring the joyous color of the sky. Inviting pedestrians to come in, have a nice and warm breakfast in a diner, or buy the next new top fashion garment.

 

Root herself can't quite place the last time she had a proper meal ; traveling around the world with a bunch of several clothes and money, switching between identities and alternating from working solo missions to collaborating with her own team of people to save the world…

 

Well, let's just say there wasn't much time for scrambled eggs and bacon. 

 

Not that she complains though. The Machine always manages to make some time for her, a doughnut here, another coffee there... Root doesn't starve to death. Actually she doesn't starve at all, because more or less her appetite has pretty much abandoned her since a very long time.

 

She remembers Daniel vividly, chastising her about the lack of hydration and non sufficient nutrition and - 'One day when you won't be able to hold your gun from the loss of energy, we'll see if scraps of food suffice.'

 

The argument would go on and on, and if Root didn't have a visual of the man, she'd hypothesize he was a grandma with bass for voice.

 

Seriously. The guy never stops fussing over other peoples' health.

 

Except, now that she's back here, to zero, she kind of misses the way he looks like he genuinely cares. Not in the motherly way, but in the I - give - a - shit - if - you - die sort of way.

 

She misses Jason and his overly affectionate use of language, and Daizo's funny accentuation of every single english word.

 

Ahead of her, in the corner near a restaurant, who appears to be a chef is patrolling an alleyway weilding a large spoon in an attempt to shoo away stray cats.

 

She sighs, not because she feels sad about the man per se, but because she misses The Machine's meaningless remarks as well. As she passes by throngs of persons, she can hear snippets of conversations, talks about the weather and school. She reminisces of the times that her God would tell her why and how and when about all these little unimportant moments. 

 

Root doesn't just miss companionship, she aches to be part of a team again, to care and to be cared of, although that is highly unlikely to occur anytime soon.

 

She's fucked this up herself, and most of her doesn't want to get involved again.

 

( You're in fact, the definition of alone )

 

She doesn't need to. Her cause has always been The Machine, not the team. Maybe this huge crack tearing between her and the members is for the best.

 

With a palm swiping the sweat from her forehead, she takes a right turn and heads for the strangely familiar territory of the library. It's almost 8:00 a.m, the climate enough warm to make her rush into the hopefully cooler environment of the building.

 

She climbs the steps mechanically, having the feeling she won't be alone and hoping her instincts prove wrong. There are vaguely hushed tones coming from inside the main space, but Root does not acknowledge this as an attempt to keep low. The walls are thick and large, rendering Root unable to pick up the conversation. 

 

( The walls of a prison for sure )

 

However as she approaches, her good ear proves useful enough to let her in on the subject breached.

 

John and Fusco. And of course they are talking about her. Oh good now she's become the center of attention.

 

( You walk , and with each step, your self made mask slips on your face a little bit more )

 

Decisive about not allowing the certainly colorful inquiries on her reappearance to get to her, she stalks into the space, minutely covered by the shadows.

 

"You're kidding me right?" Fusco waves his hands around and raises an eyebrow at John incredulously, fairly disbelieving.

 

She grabs the opportunity to set her place. "Oh Lionel, I missed you too."

 

Her cheery voice does wonders to mask the slight pang of relief at Lionel's half jump, half grunt, finally glad that at least THIS dynamic hasn't changed much.

 

( Everything else has turned to dust it appears )

 

He turns to look at her with his index finger and thumb pinching the bridge of his nose.

 

"Great. Banana Nut Crunch in the flesh." he retorts with a faux - sweet voice, "My dream come true." he adds patronizingly. 

 

Root brushes it off, and busies herself with sitting on Finch's chair. There's something oddly comforting about it, something so natural, usual. She almost hopes Harold is disconcerted when he sees her. That'd be another normal reaction, and perhaps Root craves for a bit of the old ups and downs of their relationship.

 

She thinks then that maybe, for this reunion to work, all that is in fact necessary is to gain some sort of ground with Harold, the captain. Maybe eventually, she won't have to deal with John…or Shaw.

 

( It would be YOUR dream come true )

 

That is something she definitely doesn't want to think about.

 

( She is something you definitely don't want to think about )

 

Pretending to be absorbed in organizing - or more suitably moving - Harold's hardware apparently doesn't do the job to keep the chats at bay.

 

"I'm not sure Finch would appreciate that." John's voice comes, steady but forced, all the more annoying. He sounds like he wants to confront her but holds back, and Root wonders if his master put him up to it or whether it is part of his own grand scheme. Maybe both. 

 

Yesterday they talked ; it seems entirely possible that Harold begged John to give her a pass.

 

Even though she'll not admit it, she's more than just a little grateful in that case - she's not sure if she can handle a good lecture from the big lug. He's seen and experienced far too much for her own good.

 

She makes a mental note to ask The Machine about methods of making a person forget about certain things, or more likely certain periods of time.

 

Oh how great it would be if she could do that.

 

( Oh how great it would be if The Machine even bothered to answer her )

 

On the other hand, she feels a wave of anger surge through her at Harold's supposed pity. She's not someone anyone can pity.

 

( Except yourself )

 

This is the most dismal place on earth for someone who tries to avoid thinking too much, she decides.

 

With a wink and a matching smirk she answers promptly. "Don't worry John, I think I can handle Harry's order - induced wrath."

 

She sees something snap in his eyes, but he stays rigid and collected, indignant of her .

 

Fusco clears his throat. "So um…you're back."

 

Well congrats to captain obvious.

 

For a moment she believes he expects her to reply him, but later when she looks up from a pretty much already well organized desk, he seems more like he's making a statement to his self.

 

"Can't wait to work with you Lionel." she adds devilishly, and watches as he almost chokes on his own saliva.

 

"Wait, wha-" his voice comes out hoarse from the coughing, but he quickly cuts himself off and retries, "You're staying?"

 

His eyes are as wide as an owl's when he adds as an afterthought, "like permanently?"

 

Well not permanently. Absolutely not permanently. 

 

( Your whole existence aches at the thought of it )

 

There's a banging sound from the outside and soon enough Harold emerges from the shadows. 

 

"Yes indeed, Ms. Groves is staying," he chims in before she has the chance to answer, and the fact that he doesn't clarify to whether he answered to the first question or the one that just followed, both touches and terrifies her, "and please, tell me you didn't touch any of my equipment."

 

That last part is directed at her, and it's enough to bring her out of her own reverie concerning what the possibility of moving back to New York is.

 

( Minimal, that's what it is )

 

There's relief flooding her chest at the out offered to her, because this she can do, this little harmless banter. Root rolls her eyes before throwing a good natured smile his way.

 

It might be just her own wishful thinking, but Harold's eyes seem to soften at the action.

 

They may or may not be having a silent conversation, Root has lost control over her own pair of honey browns, but if they are having one, then it's undoubtedly including this ;

 

Thank you.

 

You're welcome.

 

Harold breaks the gaze and along with it goes the moment. 

 

( You will deny you filed it away to savor it later )

 

They're far from reconciling but Root doesn't really need exactly that. Just a semblance of normalcy will suffice for whatever assignment The Machine wants them to work on together. 

 

( And definitely not pity, her own is enough )

 

She leans back on one of the walls, far from the path to her cage. The library sends a shiver down her spine repeatedly, but she ignores it for the sake of her well crafted veneer.

 

"In fact," he says as he places a bag under his desk, "The Machine informed me she is rather needed for a number."

 

Any sort of progress made til just now, shatters into billions of little pieces that Root is too confused and appalled to pick back up.

 

"Informed you?" she asks, and for the most part, does not think straight enough to hide the accusing tone.

 

Harold's hands stop momentarily, before resuming with removing cables from a shopping bag. "The Machine contacted me through a payphone."

 

There's silence, but to Root it's just the loud beat of her heart buzzing in her ears. The Machine contacts her. She's the listener, the messenger. She is the one that gets informed. No one else.

 

Not when the Analog Interface is present.

 

"I'm sure she'll tell you as such if you ask." he concludes hesitantly.

 

She's not supposed to ask. She doesn't have to. Yes The Machine hasn't been exactly talkative in a very long time, but when it comes to numbers, to doing Her will, Root has always been the first to know.

 

To have that powerful knowledge, is what defines her, it's what keeps her going.

 

Is it now taken away from her?

 

Hurt, shock and jealousy hits her all at once, and she can feel her face contorting at the aftermath. What is the point of the veneer if her own cause isn't there to support her? 

 

If anyone notices the change in the atmosphere, they wisely don't mention it.

 

John ends the silence that has taken over. "Do you want us to handle it?"

 

Harold's face pops up from behind his computer almost in lightning's speed.  
He eyes John behind glasses that Root might have more than once had the urge to punch off.

 

"You and Ms.Groves?" he asks and Root barely refrains herself from out right laughing at how horrified he sounds.  
He looks between them as if they might jump on each other any moment now.

 

( Innerly, your heart has skipped about hundreds of beats to the mere idea of being left alone with John )

 

Root is ready to make a very good remark on that, when John's eyes narrow in on Finch. "I meant me and Lionel."

 

Harold seems to contemplate that for a minute before finally shaking his head and saying, "No I need your assistance for something slightly different."

 

Well that was surprising. Also that means that Root is left to go with…

 

No. 

 

No, no, no, no.

 

( Your heart just plainly stops )

 

Root zeroes her eyes in on Finch and dares him to speak the name. If the fire in her eyes isn't enough of a warning, she decides she has absolutely no problem on voicing her opinions. When The Machine told her she had to stay, Root had an inner struggle with herself, how to treat this particular matter. If this is gonna work, then she needs to be efficient and focused, but those two will be the last adjectives to describe her with if she gets partnered with Sameen.

 

( More like emotional and pretentious )

 

( Not that you aren't pretending anyway )

 

Harold doesn't look at her when he speaks, but it's not Shaw's name that comes out of his mouth.

 

It's Fusco's. 

 

Lionel is the first to react. "You want me to go on a mission with Master Nut Job?"

 

Harold's eyes are sharp and scolding when he turns to him, "I'd really appreciate that Detective," he turns his gaze to John, "besides, Ms. Shaw is also required to help Mr. Reese."

 

Root's mind reels with every single possible scenario of why Harold would need both John and Shaw for a side project. For some reason, the fact that she's paired with Fusco the outsider, makes her feel like an outsider as well.

 

Which, she realizes a second later, is exactly what she is.

 

"What do you need us for?" John asks.

 

"We're going to find out what's wrong with The Machine." Harold states matter of factly, achieving the unachievable. 

 

Making her feel even more left out.

 

She tries for a smirk and a mocking scoff. "Don't you think WE should be looking into that, rather than the Mayhem Twins?"

 

It's been so long since she's used those words. They sound foreign and pretentious like her.

 

Harold holds her eyes firmly. "Not really, no. The Machine specified you heading for the number."

 

The Machine specified.

 

The light from the window sparkles and changes ever so lightly. It doesn't seem to have neither an end nor a beginning, but it looks a hell of a lot like it's abandoning her altogether. She wants to say something back to Harold, but the right moment to say something, in fact, right, is gone.

 

He gets up and limps to her, handing her a brown envelope with photos and records inside. Root knows because once, seemingly eons ago, she used to be the one to hand them around like a child spreading Christmas lights on a tree.

 

"You should start investigating." he prods, and she takes it without her head necessarily partaking in the action.

 

"Mr. Reese I need you to go to Central Park, find Ms. Shaw on the way and take her with you." he adds to John. 

 

G○, she hears.

 

She does not move, her eyes unfocused on John and Harold and the plan he explains.

 

G○.

 

"Are ya coming or not?" Fusco has already reached the exit when he turns and frowns at her, and Root has to drag her feet to reach him.

 

As they walk out of the building and Root can no longer hear what Harold instructs John to do, she decides to ignore the negative and only dwell on the positive side of the situation, that includes The Machine talking to her.

 

( You're not managing so well )

 

//

 

"Shaw."

 

"John," she greets, and when she meets his eyes, and the brisk pace he holds toward her, she knows she has to turn around and go the other way.

 

He confirms her suspicions as he comes up beside her and they start walking to the opposite direction from the library.

 

"What's up?" she asks once they've switched sidewalks.

 

There's andrenaline pumping in her veins at the prospect of some early action, and the glint on his cold blue eyes only intensifies it. She had a rough morning, attempting to keep her thoughts locked up and failing miserably. Maybe a few shot kneecaps and skull bashing could prove rather useful.

 

"Harold has a mission for us."

 

Shaw raises both eyebrows in a questioning manner, just before Finch's voice cuts in through the comm link. 

 

"Not particularly," he states and his voice is weary, "well at least not the way that word translates to your vocabulary."

 

Shaw laughs at that ; leave it to Finch to worry about the destruction following their steps. Still, even though obviously there won't be any kneecapping in the short future, a mission is good means of clearing her head of the many unwanted thoughts swimming in it. 

 

"Good morning Ms. Shaw," he kindly offers and Sameen smirks. 

 

"Morning Harold, where are we headed?"

 

John points to a turn to the right, and as people wheeze by, Sameen can hear them laugh and talk, joking without a care in the world. She can't imagine herself in such a position. 

 

On the horizon, behind large buildings and skyscrapers, Shaw can distinct Central Park's tall green trees. It's late October but the weather seems to go against the natural, turning from cloudy to sunlit skies in a day. 

 

There are typing sounds from the other side of the line. "I need you to retrieve something from a safe place for me."

 

He's cryptic, just as always, but John is the one to call him out on it.

 

"What kind of something?"

 

The relentless tapping of the keyboard doesn't stop, and for longer than a minute there's silence. Shaw and John keep moving forward, closer to the park now. Sameen assumes that is on fact where they're headed. She's almost confident Harold won't answer the question at all, but there's a hum and pause of typing in her ear.

 

"Some files on The Machine's structure."

 

John sighs next to her exasperated. "Just because it happened once, it doesn't mean The Machine has a glitch Finch."

 

Shaw thinks back to yesterday, and Root's use of language. She seemed like she knew what she was talking about it, as if it was a fact she'd accepted. 

 

Harold resumes typing, "Ms. Groves sounded rather impassive about it to me," he says and the gears turning in his mind are literally audible,"as if it's something that's happened before. She seemed concerned."

 

"Really?" Shaw doesn't hesitate to ask.  
"She seemed like she didn't give a fuck to me."

 

From the corner of her eye, she catches John looking at her. For an extended amount of time. It is true. During their talk, Root had more the expression of a teacher trying to explain basic calculus to a bunch of bad students, than someone who participated in a conversation about a dead man. A dead man by choice, and a dead man by the choice of her God at that. 

 

She looked like she had resigned, just as she looked by that window, in that mirror, the soldier with no purpose. It makes Shaw wonder just what had happened exactly during her time away.  
John told her Root had already left before saving Sameen, with a goodbye to Harold and nothing but bitterness left behind. They would hear from her occasionally, through The Machine, or some secretive operation with Daniel. 

 

'Root didn't want to be found,' John had said. 'Root came back just for you.'

 

Root came back just for her. And then she left. Good God help her, if Sameen ever understood the logic behind that line of actions.

 

"And it looked like she was pretending to not give a fuck to me," John cuts her trail of thoughts. They enter Central Park and move quickly between New Yorkers and benches. Sameen presumes John knows where they are heading, because one thing is certain.

 

She doesn't.

 

Harold's breath hitches, and when his voice reemerges from the comm, it sounds breathless. "Perhaps it's not that she doesn't care," he croaks, and Shaw almost worries something is horribly wrong. "But that she's gotten nearly accustomed to it."

 

John stops walking abruptly, and Sameen almost runs into him. With a peak upwards, she sees him clench his jaw tight. "It's happened before."

 

His voice is pure gravel and bass, and Sameen can't tell whether the anger floating in it is directed at The Machine or Root.

 

The latter is what works for her though. 

 

( You hate her so much already )

 

"I'm afraid that is quite an understatement."

 

Shaw growls and with a tight tone of her own asks, "How many?"

 

Harold breathes once, twice. "Four deaths in various places of the world, some very public," he begins and it's obvious he's dictating information from the computer, "witnesses protected by the Law claim to have seen a woman  
…" he stops inquisitively, a key being pressed is heard before he continues. "Brown wavy hair, tall, slim…they have seen her close to the scene."

 

Silence spreads over them all, contrasting with the innocent chanter of passer - bys. No one seems to want to speak the next word, but Sameen has had enough of all this secrecy and uncertainty.

 

"Root."

 

It's enough to break the thick as ice tension.

 

Harold sighs sadly. "There's a reference to the woman at death of Jenkins at Olso as well. Same description."

 

Shaw bristles. John clenches his fists before walking down the path they had taken up before halting to hear Harold out.

 

"Root knows how to cover her trail, maybe it's not her," he contributes a second later.

 

"Unfortunately," Harold starts, "her ability was no use. She was seen as a simple citizen, too many times. Nobody has charged her, but that doesn't mean we can't deduce she was involved."

 

They reach a tree near a more secluded area of the famous park. John lowers himself and buries his pocket knife to the roots of the tree. He drags it around slowly, before handing the knife to Shaw silently, and taking something from inside the ground. Probably what Harold needs.

 

"I've got it Harold."

 

"Return quickly then."

 

He stops.

 

"We have far too much work ahead of us."

 

//

 

The problem with Root, is that she doesn't forget.

 

She's had this attribute ever since she was little Sam, the creepy blonde girl in small town Bishop. Her mother however, was a whole different story. It started out tame, with a bit of missed jobs here and a confused day there. Root's mom was always confused. Very confused. Sam would make notes for her, a to do list, or the date of the day. Sometimes, her mother, would look at it just to go and scream at Sam later for 'treating her own mother as a retarded six year old.'

 

But other times, she forgot. She forgot what she had forgotten to do amongst the large pile of things Sam reminded her to keep track of, and the never ending muddle of notes that kept her constantly aware of what she had been meant to do in the first place.

 

She forgot til one day she didn't, and it was the day little Samantha had scribbled down 'remember to forget' in the bottom, confident her mother wouldn't look at it.

 

She did, and after that day Sam never made notes again. After that day the small Root growing inside her promised to never forget.

 

She promised and now she finds herself cursing her decision. It'd be so easy if she could forget. Everything and everyone, actions that had just been taken, words that had just been spoken, like her mother used to forget what Sam had been telling her just a split second before.

 

It'd be easy for her to not only sit in this car right now, next to a man named Lionel, but to control her heart and her brain as well. Even now as all this time has passed, as they've been sitting in a stolen Honda outside an I.T company, waiting for their number to show up, she can still feel the same burden of unrelenting pain, confusion, tug at her chest, and her inability to do anything to stop it.

 

She hates being confused and uncertain of herself just as much as she hates not being able to forget, not even the simplest detail.

 

It's tiring and it's slowly torturing her, with a stifling silence that's everything but comfortable in this small confined space of the vehicle.

 

Lionel is as stiff as a board, and Root would have made a comment on it if it wasn't for her own mind running miles a minute.

 

The number comes out of the building half an hour later, a suitcase in hand, and sunglasses on placed delicately on his sharp defined nose. A young man, ambitious and attractive, so far neither identified as a victim nor a perpetrator.

 

Root doubts the possibility of the first one, the man is confident and certain despite his early age. He looks like he stands well on his feet, and certainly he is rather busy. They'd been watching him for two or three hours before he hastily entered the building, and exited surprisingly relaxed.

 

The Machine isn't talking and she takes that as a good sign.

 

He makes his way down the sidewalk towards the right, and Root revves the engine to life not much later. Fusco grunts annoyed.

 

"How much time til this guy gets attacked?" he asks and Root raises a questioning eyebrow at him. 

 

"Oh?" she exclaims. "You think he's a victim?"

 

Lionel turns to look at her incredulously.  
"You're kidding right? I'll bet you on it. No way that lanky ass is capable of harming someone."

 

Root smiles at the windshield and shakes her head at Fusco's choice of words. "I think he's cute."

 

He scowls distastefully. "Young women today," he mumbles, "all about fancy bodies and sunglasses."

 

She chuckles lightly, glad that they're on easy ground, and turns to him with her smile reducing to a smirk. "Did you just call me young?"

 

Fusco grumbles something incoherent under his breath and looks out his window distracted. Lionel might have never been as close to her, but Root appreciates the fact that he has always been there when shit go down - an extra helping hand. Unlike her.

 

She only lets her gaze stray on the number. He turns towards another block.

 

"I'm just sayin'," Fusco states a moment later, "he doesn't look like a killer to me."

 

Root shrugs and looks out her window to the man. Tall, well built and extremely straight postured. Everything screams self confidence from afar. And not the fake, self presumed one. The justified kind.

 

"I think he is." she insists. 

 

"Is not." Fusco retorts. 

 

"Is. "

 

"Not."

 

"Is," she nods to herself.

 

Fusco turns to her abruptly. "Is not!"

 

Root laughs at his petulant behavior. "Whatever you say Lionel," she waves him off.

 

Fusco looks affronted, muttering things about how no one ever takes him seriously, and Root can only smirk and focus on the number that heads to what appears to be a car dump, about a block away.

 

She drives there slowly, following the traffic, reaching it three minutes after the man had. Definitely not a place for a man with a suit and sunglasses. Fusco senses the stop and reaches for his gun.

 

They step out of the car, Root throwing the keys on the sidewalk. They take a few steps. Caster has already entered the building.

 

"Told ya! This is his graveya-"

 

The rest of his sentence is drowned by another voice.

 

ApR○acH tArG€T A|○n€, she says.

 

Root almost freezes to the spot, not sure she's heard well. She is confused again. An indisputable fact that she might have lost her mind after all, hearing things and reacting to them without them being real at all.

 

She feels Lionel's frown and worried tome but even that isn't able to tune out the words.

 

ApR○acH tArG€T A|○n€, she repeats.

 

Her mind is a roller coaster, a twisting mass inside her head that mixes all her feelings and thoughts together in a wild dance she's not sure she knows the steps to. It's an order that She gives her, and it's repeated four times before Root finally stops the mixer and decides to just go with it.

 

The fourth time sounded a lot like a warning.

 

Her smile is forced when she looks at him. "Lionel," she begins, and searches for the right words to put this. "You're right, perhaps this is just another boring case."

 

His frown deepens as she crouches and picks the keys of the Honda up.

 

Root beams at him. "Here," she says, and hands him the keys, "I can take care of this one."

 

Fusco gapes and clicks his tongue. "Just a second ago you were battling me on the fact that he IS a perpetrator and now you're agreeing." 

 

His tone is patronizing.

 

Root tries not to grunt in frustration. She needs to think and think fast. 

 

ApR○acH tArG€T A|○n€ n○₩.

 

Root's anger rises from within. She's half certain it's directed at herself.

 

Then, like a flash, comes the idea she needed. "She says Harold needs your help."

 

Fusco seems to crack at that but he still eyes her suspiciously as he takes the keys. 

 

Root pays him no mind and turns around before he can question her further. She walks into a small alley that stretches far, defined left and right by brick walls. It smells bad and she sneers, the alcohol and rotten food invading her breathing space.

 

"Wanna tell me what that was all about?" she asks as she ducks under a hanging pipe leaking something that resembled dangerously something called urine.

 

There's dumbfounding silence all over, and Root almost wants to laugh at the absurdity of being given the could shoulder from an A.I. Even though she will laugh for a very long time based in the duration of this joke.

 

"Fine," she huffs when there's still no answer, "wanna tell me where I'm headed?"

 

30 f€€T, tUrN |€Ft. 

 

She does as she's told. Mechanically, she follows the orders to end up in a maze made of cars, old machines and wasted metal.

 

She sees him, from the corner of a building a storage in the middle. He's standing there waiting for something, checking his wrist watch.

 

"Anything you want to share?"

 

Silence.

 

She growls in frustration. 

 

"What do I do?" she reattepts. 

 

There are several minutes that Root's words still, waiting for this moment of truth. 

 

When the words come, Root feels her world shift under her feet almost fatally.

 

€|iMinAT€ tArG€T.

 

//


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'I am covered in skin,  
> no one gets to come in,  
> pull me out from inside.  
> I am folding and unfolding,  
> and unfolding, I am.  
> Colorblind.'
> 
>  
> 
> Colorblind by Counting Crows.

'Maybe this is just a boring case,' she said. 'I can take care of this one,' she said. 

 

Bite me, Lionel thinks. 

 

God, Glasses is not giving him enough credit for this. Hours spent watching that twenty year old wannabe, hours spent - in a car with Crazy Fruit Loops, watching that twenty year old wannabe nonetheless.

 

And what does he get in the end?

 

Some ancient Honda car keys shoved into his hands and the least enlightening direction to have existed in centuries.

 

'Harold needs your help.'

 

Now is that a hint? Yes.

 

But is that a location? Is that the definition of a dangerous situation? Is that supposed to have some sort of undermining meaning that will point him to where the hell Finch could have stuck himself into? And is that a number of exactly how much time he has before the other two nut jobs set fire on his brains because he's late?

 

Let Lionel tell you. NO.

 

And Harold isn't answering his phone.

 

As if it isn't enough that Cocoa Puffs decided to make an appearance, now he also has to get in between the hacker and he's somewhat boss. Great. 

 

It's strange, seeing her again. Mostly looking the same, the moment he heard her voice, a rush of memory came back to him ; a request she'd made before she had left. He remembers shadows swallowing her and the lingering prediction of wrath, dangerously induced by a certain someone temporarily unconscious. 

 

Sameen is definitely not one for emotional reunions, and Fusco doubts anything would have been different back then. He wasn't there when she woke up, but he didn't need John's debrief to understand that after a while, when she realized, her jaw had clenched more than usual and her shoulders had been as tense as stone. 

 

Shaw just knew, he is sure. 

 

She knew from the second her eyes opened, turned to face a subway occupied by a dog on her side and the man in a suit over her, Glasses just a few feet away. Lionel'd bet his money on that, Shaw isn't stupid. 

 

The woman with the brown, wavy curls had not been there, had been quite possibly somewhere but decidedly not within the optical range of Sameen Shaw. She was gone, tires screeching, gas pedal pressed to the fullest, a great escape in all its glory. 

 

Yes that was it. Is everyone to have a different interpretation of her words and actions, he shall have his. 

 

An escape then. If it was up to Lionel, escape was the word he'd use. 

 

Root had tried to escape. 

 

//

 

She's not sure how much time has passed since the minute they stepped foot in the library, but for some reason it feels like centuries. When John half indicated, half informed Sam that they had a mission - well let's just say this isn't even remotely close to what she thought the mission would be.

 

The thing is ; Sameen is not a computer person. She doesn't like anything that has to do with them, any device. Yes she appreciates their utility. And yes she gets that they're a necessity at their line of work, but her own skill set has never extended that far.

 

For the hundredth time during one minute, she looks up towards the wall behind the two men, where their wall clock is located, ticking torturingly slow. One o'clock. And she hasn't even had lunch yet. 

 

Finch's wrinkled face, after he has cradled the laptop's screen, betrayed a rather intense suggestion of satisfaction ; but shortly after it's replaced by one of disappointment. John, over him, seemingly oblivious to anything whatsoever that Harold has just discovered, asks him what is the problem. 

 

( For the umpteenth time )

 

Shaw rolls her eyes as she uncrosses her ankles from where they're resting on the small glass table. She gets up.

 

"I'm going inside."

 

They ignore her.

 

Clenching her jaw and biting her tongue, she turns around muttering as aways how she does not get paid enough for this stuff. As she walks further down the corridor, her eyes land on the Faraday cage. Her mind backtracks but her feet stay moving forward, her own brain betraying her. She opens the fency door, and gets in.

 

She'd been standing here relentlessly. Refusing to eat or drink, Shaw remembers. She was just chattering Sameen til the end of the line, til Shaw either knocked her out again or just left. Talking about her precious Machine and books and computers. The books didn't use to bring Shaw on the verge of shooting her, no ; Sam could handle these. Root would talk about 'The Wind In The Willows' and 'The Book Of Embraces' and 'did you know how difficult it is to find a title for a book Sameen?' She said. No, Sam could handle these incessant questions, but computers and code and perfection would break the straw on the camel's back. 

 

Root told her she was perfect, that her lack of emotions made her the ultimate weapon, a Machine greater than all.

 

( You don't like compliments )

 

The conversation ended with Sam's fists for answers.

 

It seems almost surreal that they've gone this far. Sometimes it feels for her like yesterday, when she was tied on a steering wheel and a crazy hacker next to her talking shit about her robot God. She ventures over to the only window, but her eyes seem to be looking much more inside than outside. She ambles somewhat aimlessly toward the pile of books that were never moved from their initial position, and picks up the one on top. 'Si tú me dices ven lo dejo todo... pero dime ven.' She reads. Albert Espinosa. She doesn't know what it means, and doesn't care to find out. Of course Root had The Machine translate for her. Is that French? Italian? She doesn't know and she doubts Root does without help from a certain someone.

 

She picks up the one under it, already opened. Since when? Years ago, she thinks.

 

( Back then )

 

Black letters and black words, four paragraphs, and page 27. Two rows are underlined. 

 

'As I heard the tread of pupils coming up my ancient creaking stairs, I felt like a tired tart awaiting her clients...'

 

A.L. Rowse. 'On Life As An Oxford Don.'

 

Where had Root found a pen? Anyway she remembers this one. Not the particular paragraph or plot, but she has a memory of the tall brunette leaning against the fence and holding the book.

 

She lets it fall on the desk and sighs. She wonders if Fusco is getting more action than her right now and works herself into getting even angrier with Root. Nothing as it appears, is enough to hold her attention for long, and soon she returns back to the main room. She hopes this little period of time proved profitable for the two other men, because she's running low on patience and her trigger finger is itching. 

 

Not that Harold has looked anything even thinly close to pleased these last few hours ; tapping on the keyboard with fervor like shaking books quite vigorously from their spine and expecting something to fall out.

 

Only nothing actually falls out, apparently.

 

"Now," she finally enquires, "does someone care to tell me what we've been doing here for the past… say ; three hours?"

 

"Well -" John cuts her a look, "you? Nothing obviously." 

 

Sameen points her combat knife's edge towards him in warning.

 

"Just give me another minute."

 

( You think you've given him enough )

 

In a - seemingly - random manner, ( for you purposefully, of course ) she starts soothing her fingers over some cables roaming around and down to the floor next to his round table. When Finch realizes, and does a double take on her, her eyes fill with vicious amusement. His hands type a tad faster. But then, her own cautious joy is stifled by Harold's hesitant scowl.

 

His eyes though, they don't focus on her.  
They zoom in over her shoulder.

 

Nothing is said. It's just Fusco, sweaty and gulping, rather upset.

 

( What the - )

 

"Detective - "

 

"You're here? And okay? I thought you were kidnapped or something!"

 

John looks at him as if he's a lunatic. "Lionel, what are you doing here?" He asks, rather patiently if you ask Shaw.

 

Fusco frowns, but stands there in continued silence, his mind running miles a second, whilst the rest of them don't have even the vaguest notion of what is going on. He looks at them one by one, takes in their surprised and confused faces, slightly less confused than his own.

 

It is seconds later that Finch makes a question, more severe :

 

"Detective Fusco?"

 

He pauses.

 

"Where is Ms. Groves?"

 

But said man just shakes his head, and lowers his gaze to a bunch of keys in his hands, his eyebrows furrowing further.

 

"She lied to me," he mutters then. 

 

And after a second, louder, more angered than perplexed :

 

"She lied to me." He repeats.

 

//

 

The eyes, usually so fierce and piercing, are now dull and defeated ; stormy clouds engulfing the black cycle. A look of self - loathing, spreading from the downturned edges of her eyebrows, to her pursed, colorless lips. No pretense then, just a nascent interest in her own, sullen face. 

 

Her dark, vivid curls, are already streaked with red, in her mind, lustreless and monstrous ; as she feels. Cheap, but she feels cheap on the whole anyway. Her oval face, with the ghastly pallor of her skin, pale to the core. 

 

The harsh, empty brown eyes stare back at her with an expression of dishonesty, and something akin to disapproval but she wouldn't know. She doesn't give a sod for the poor lad's life, not really. From what she's gathered he is nothing more than a nuisance, pressuring and monopolizing people to do his deeds, and even if he isn't the perpetrator now, he'll be some other time, eventually. 

 

Come to think of it ; that's exactly what makes her even more of a heartless person, she's given up on him since the first second. She asks again and again if he's the bad guy but She won't answer. Perhaps because she has convinced herself that if he is, it'll make the weight in her chest fall more easily. But hard luck!

 

It doesn't matter. She'll have to kill him anyway. Not much of an issue, either ; just attach the silencer and aim, 90° degrees to the right. He'll go down before he has time to see his life flash in front of his eyes, before he knows she's been here.

 

Eyes. As they keep staring back at her from the dusty window of the abandoned storage he currently is himself behind of, she is suddenly very aware, that the streaks of red she sees in her irises and hair, are much possibly existent, and perhaps only physical proof of some incipient streaks of the cruelty residing in her heart.

 

( The heart you might not have anymore )

 

//

 

She's pressing on the gas pedal so hard she thinks she might leave her footprint on it. She also thinks she might be a bit breathless, from all the swerving, and chasing.

 

Chasing? 

 

Yes chasing. Time probably. Yes she's chasing time, with uncontrollable and strong determination. From here, seven roads close to Lavel's café and two stoplights away from New York's rather unpopular car dump, Sameen has no ability to spot a way that leads straight to the area. The huge skyscrapers hide the sunlight, but the heat is unrelenting, overwhelming nonetheless. New York, with pedestrians running around, people that smell of cigarettes, fresh shampoo and their company's defining cologne. 

 

She accelerates.

 

Passes two or three taxis and ends up at a red light. One more. 

 

"Ms. Shaw?" Her earpiece comes to life.

 

"Almost there."

 

When the stoplight turns green, her foot clamps down on the pedal once more. It would have to be her. She was the one that ran out the door and into the Honda the moment Fusco explained to them about the number and Root's weird behavior. And truly, Sameen didn't spring into action because she was worried about Root, but about what Root was going to do to the number. She might have not understood everything from Harold's little task today, but she gets enough.

 

The Machine has been letting people die - or worse, possibly ordering kills around like giving free pizza away. And is it coincidence that all of a sudden Root tells Lionel to bail? Lying for that matter. She was trying to get rid of him, because of course he'd been an inconvenience if he was there to witness Root do something immoral. And The Machine. Harold claims It deliberately asked for Root specifically, on this mission. It all concludes on one thing as far as Sameen is concerned, and someone has to set things straight. John and Harold are too emotional, barely strict with Root, but she's angry and she doesn't care, so yes, it would have to be her.

 

Her stomach begins to seize up the moment she passes by the second stoplight. She leans over the steering wheel as if to urge it to go forward. Faster.

 

When she reaches the location, she dumps the car in the front with little care, instead focusing on the firearm currently between her hands. She shrugs the sweat of her shoulder but leaves her tank top rather crumbled, regretting the denim jeans she chose to wear that morning. Damn it's hot, she thinks. 

 

Moving forward, she ducks into an alley, narrow but long, bricks suffocating on each side of her. "Okay Finch." She says. "I'm here."

 

"It seems like this is where Ms. Groves followed the number through, and if you walk down that way you'll find yourself not far from an…abandoned storage as it appears." His words are punctuated from the typing on the keyboard. 

 

She moves once again, avoiding disgusting obstacles on the way, as she makes it to the end of the walls. She looks ahead. Cars. Different shapes shapes and colors that always tend to approach rust. Wheels, generators, window shields. Yep. Definitely a car dump. Also a Goddamn labyrinth, unfortunately for her.

 

"Where exactly is that storage?" She asks while walking with her gun extended, cautiously avoiding making any noise. She sees some very shiny BMW nose onto the middle of a clearing, and her expectations arise. Andrenaline kicks in once more.

 

"I'm checking the feeds right now..." he trails off to do what she guesses is searching, then continues, "it should be to your left - though I should warn you, there's some company."

 

She snorts and turns to the left as instructed. "I can see that."

 

She sticks to hiding behind cars, crouching out of sight just in case anyone is there and waiting. The air feels still, the place forbidding and a little uncanny, quick shivers down her arm. It's quite now, sombre even. With this eerie, silent atmosphere, it almost feels like a cloud passed over the sun minutely, although that does nothing to lower the temperature.

 

She lurches on quickly, rendering herself invisible and untouchable as she takes cover behind one of the storage's walls. It's blue and Sameen is currently on her knees under a window ; just in case the visitors are inside.

 

Are there? She can't risk getting up. What if the job's already done? What if Caster's body is lying limp inside that storage, Root already gone? Can't be a normal storage though, she counters. Who puts windows someplace which they want no one to be able to violate? Nobody. So this is a meeting place then.

 

Safehouse? No she doesn't think so. A car dump is not the place. Is it though? Not suspicious, rarely visited... but reckless. No windows should be on a safehouse either. The sign reads storage room, yet there is minimal security. It stands out. Not a safehouse then, she thinks. 

 

Then what is this? She curses herself for not asking for more information on the number, but there was no time. It's almost 2 p.m. For all she knows, she might have arrived way too late. An hour - and more - is absolutely enough for someone like Root to take someone out.

 

( Or let them die )

 

Shaw counts on the fact that the hacker is injured, not on top form, and Harold surveys all exits. 

 

( But God surveys her )

 

Anyway she'll have to move soon enough. She voices as much.

 

"I can't access the camera feeds near the storage room, I'm afraid. You'll have to proceed alone and carefully Ms. Shaw." He replies and sounds genuinely worried.

 

She rolls her eyes. "Any sign of Root?"

 

He sighs. "Ms. Groves hasn't appeared in any of the cameras no." He pauses. "But perhaps she's closer to you, where there is no surveillance."

 

"Don't you think that security is a bit loose here for a storage Finch?"

 

She tentatively raises her head to peek in through the window. Empty but a briefcase in the center. 

 

Well that's weird.

 

"Indeed Ms. Shaw," he begins. "I doubt this is an actual storage room."

 

"Yeah well..." her voice takes a strained edge as she tries to unlock the pull - down window with her gun's handle, "apparently it's actual enough to store store a briefcase."

 

With a final push, the window breaks open, and she raises her gun protectively, ready for a gunfight. But oddly enough, there are no alarms ringing, no thugs shouting… no catch?

 

"That would belong to the number. Mr. Fusco mentioned him holding a leather briefcase -"

 

"Yeah yeah, I got it. I'm openin - "

 

It's empty. Just leather and dust and some tissue. Okay, now things are getting weird. Is someone playing with them? Root?

 

( Nah, you don't think she can do that anymore )

 

"Ms. Shaw?" Harold's concerned voice emerges from the comm links again. 

 

"It's empty."

 

She looks around but sees nothing. Just blue walls surrounding her in grey darkness. She steps out of the window again, gun always outstretched. 

 

"I don't know about you Finch," she states while narrowing her eyes in on the nearby ruined cars - as if that will be the answer to all the questions - "but it seems like this might be more than just aother boring case to me."

 

//

 

A briefcase, plain, black leather, depending the size, has enough space inside to store a whole baby doll. (Or a real baby, who knows what freaks exist in the world ). It's really, really not a given, not a habit or certain fact. Sometimes a briefcase could belong to an I.T, to a janitor or a plumber. Not leather though, because that would be a total waste of good material. Silver, steel, metal ; that's more like it. Does the job. What job? Secures, stores, hides, protects.

 

They're everywhere. Carried around by paranoid or simply tidy persons, walking around with it like a handbag. 

 

She's held one once.

 

She likes not to think about it. It happens with the littlest of things really, could be a red button, an elevator, a fence... a briefcase. It starts with a familiar dull ache on the back of her head, ( the moment her eyes render the image truly, red, round, pressable - a button usually ), and ends with a barely suppressable sting on the edges of her eyes.

 

She's just not fond of buttons. 

 

( Anything that reminds you of that day )

 

Or briefcases.

 

But anyway, they're useful. Enormously useful, and perhaps nice to look at, so elegant and small but powerful. All of them. Steel, metal, leather. Black, silver, gold, red or whatever. 

 

They also cost a lot. Especially leather ones with lots of space and an attached mechanical lock on them. When someone's rich, they can buy one of those, but its bought for a reason ; because it's not really that much of a pretty briefcase, and completely tasteless when there's metal suddenly poking out from the top - it's not there for decorational purposes.

 

So yeah. It's definitely for security. Although that's a bit stupid right? Who would hide something important inside a leather case since it's widely known that a knife can penetrate leather like the spoon cuts through jelly? But then, that is the point ; fooling people - dangerous people, with power and thirst for blood - into thinking that this briefcase is harmless, a bad attempt at selling attitude and superiority. 

 

She gets it - she does. 

 

But that doesn't mean she's not slightly trembling while he's opening it. It means that when it's finally open, and, she, even from behind the window, outside the storage unit itself, can distinguish a simple, honest to God book inside the velvet protection pillow inside, her deep, deep frown is more than justified.

 

So here's what she should have done minutes ago ; she should have shot him between the eyes - silencer on because The Machine's still not telling her whether he's a perp or not, and they might get company, then she should have thrown him in a pile of destroyed cars, grabbed the briefcase and opened it herself, taken a good look at the book then put it back in its place like it'd been untouched before proceeding to make her way out of the facility.

 

Instead she just waited, bought time for him, watched him open it himself inside the storage unit, and now she has to wait longer. Because she can't shoot through a window without shattering it - that would be mistake no. 1.

 

No.2 ; if she opens the window he'll know and he'll move and she'll shoot him and leave blood spray. 

 

( Everything has to look normal She says to you. Why? You wonder )

 

She has to wait til he gets out. Which better be soon because The Machine is rattling her ear off like an agitated teacher that is impatient for a student to finish writing an equation on the board.  
The order never changes.

 

€|iMinAT€ tArG€T.

 

€|iMinAT€ tArG€T.

 

€|iMinAT€ tArG€T.

 

The words might be burning through her skull.

 

"I'll do it." She hisses. Because she will. He just has to get out.

 

But as if luck has decided to take a leap today, instead of hearing the noisy door of a storage unit opening and closing, she hears the distinct sound of a car door doing that not far away. She flinches. Closes her eyes and curses. No time for cautiousness now.

 

She raises herself up just as she listens to shoes meet the rocky ground from further inside the maze of cars, and gets ready to shoot him, when -

 

n0. 

 

She freezes, but her shadow blocks enough of sunlight for him to notice the shift, and he turns towards the window with widened eyes dead focused on her rather intimidating gun.

 

He runs. She races around the walls to get to the front of the storage unit where she's sure he will try to get out of, hoping to be faster than him. The second she's there he's already closing the door and running away, the opposite direction of the cars. 

 

€|iMinAT€ tArG€T.

 

With pursed lips and quick feet, she starts shooting. He jumps like dancing on hot coal, and it's not long before she hears gunfire behind her as well. Her fifth bullet hits him on his leg. He won't walk anymore.

 

( You'd kill him anyway )

 

The bullets get closer to her. Root notices his hand holding the book as she approaches. 

 

€|iMinAT€ tArG€T.

 

"He's not the perp is he?" She asks angrily even as bullets hail her way.

 

( Would you? )

 

€|iMinAT€ tArG€T.

 

He wails underneath her.

 

In a second's decision she pulls him up - ignores his scream of pain - and drags him quickly - he's slippery, so much blood - towards another alley, dark, too dark. What is this place? She looks over her shoulder and starts shooting at some approaching men.

 

"Who are you?!" He screams. 

 

She takes a left turn to another alley. This is definitely not just a car dump. "Who are they?" She asks him instead, her voice muffled by his jacket as she tries to carry his weight.

 

( She screams at you all the same )

 

She wonders how much time has passed. If Fusco found the others and discovered it was all a lie. If they have already uncovered the reasons behind and whether someone - John most probably is already on his way to find her and question her, save the number from both her AND the perpetrators apparently. 

 

The young man, Caster winces. "They're my buyers."

 

She hears more bullets come their way as another guy appears in the alley and she barely manages to shove the number behind a brick wall before she turns around to shoot his kneecaps. Caster lets a shrill cry of pain as his leg bleeds and meets with the ground hard. She turns to him and hastily grabs the book from his grasp.

 

"Get up." Root orders coolly - €|iMinAT€ tArG€T - and he shakes his head mumbling pleads, but she just shouts louder. "Get up!"

 

He does on wobbly legs and tears in his eyes. She turns around in time to shoot another man. "Keep moving." She orders him over her shoulder. 

 

She looks at the book as she walks backwards. "What is this?"

 

R•○t.

 

"Why won't you tell me?"

 

Silence. 

 

€|iMinAT€ tArG€T.

 

Root grunts and shoots another person coming their way. The Machine is her Leader. Root listens to The Machine. She has a plan. She asked for Root on this mission. She needs Root. 

 

( You can't defy her. You did once and look at where it got you )

 

She turns around as he enters a large warehouse, obviously gaining some distance from her.

 

They say you can only distance yourself from death anyway.

 

//

 

"Harold, there are bullet marks everywhere."

 

Her eyes roam over the bricks, now inside an alley further away from the storage unit. Scratches, embedded bullets on the walls, a few laying stray on the ground, some more -

 

Her gun is down and pointing at the withering man the moment she sees him around the corners. He's holding his knee.

 

"And, unless John flew down here... I'm fairly certain Root's been busy."

 

Harold sighs and it's not the least bit hard to imagine the displeased look on his face. The man down is groaning and Sameen decides to spare his other knee, if only to avoid wasting precious time. She walks over him and keeps going, follow in the trail of wailing men like she did in the building when Root first came back. She makes a few twists and turns throughout buildings, noting the decreasing number of bullets spent on each body as she goes.

 

The last two are actually dead.

 

"No kneecapping here." Sameen remarks as she keeps moving, gun always an extension of her arm. "She probably got tired somewhere in between," she stops, looking down at some red spots on the asphalt, "and there's a blood trail here too."

 

"Root's you think?" He asks.

 

Root's? Caster's? She glances back at where she came from, and notices that the spots have been there all the way. They're magnified near a corner and then lessen again til they disappear a little short of her own feet.

 

Can't be Root's then, she thinks. She  
wouldn't have shot so perfectly if she'd been injured. And judging from the blood, it can't have been a serious injury either. But Caster might already be dead. So, where's the body, she asks herself. Did she carry it? Maybe she dropped him... Shaw takes a few steps to the huge spot right on the corner of a building... and then got back up. Carried him again? No. Dead weight. She would have killed him and left.

 

( Maybe she didn't kill him at all )

 

So Caster is a victim then. Root wouldn't kill a victim would she? Sameen stops in front of a building as the two dead men lie a few feet away from it. She can't hear anything past her own ragged breathing and some groans behind her, but it's better than nothing and if she has to put a bet on it, her gut tells her this place is Jackpot. 

 

"Don't know," she starts jogging. "But I'm about to find out."

 

//

 

The gun feels heavy in her hand. It's sweaty and clammy, and so hot she thinks the metal might melt and pour through her skin, burn her to death, still her to the statue she has never been. Always moving, always running. She finds that it's not that difficult to kill him, ( he moves too slow, even if she wanted to pretend he was too fast and spare his life ), it's not earing her from the inside out to press her index finger on the trigger. She's gotten used to it, especially after NYSE, bullets were her deadly partners. She's feeling bottomless and betrayed, because she knows, ( She does too ), that if she kills him there's no turning back. It'll be like drawing an invisible line between her and the already unwelcoming others.

 

But Her metallic voice remains unwavering and unchanging even after she has pleaded that her God finds another way, and Root feels a lot like Jesus praying to his Father for mercy. Only she's nothing close to a saint.

 

The Machine has a plan, she has always had a plan. When She asked Root to walk away from Oslo, to leave Connor Helgonk in Berlin, to shut the electricity down on Rosemud Valleys even though She knew that would mean Mary Delft would have to survive by herself in the coffee shop... She had a plan. She told Root to leave because there were 'no viable options', 'other assets to recruit', 'actual numbers in need of saving'.

 

But She has never asked for a direct kill. 

 

It brings Root's theory to a whole new other level. Would that make Caster the thirteenth? Or the first in another, newer category? Caster has no salvation? Well why not let him die like the others? Why give Finch his number and ask for Root? Why kill him? 

 

So many questions that she has neither the time nor the resources to answer. The Machine gives her a time frame, orders her to exterminate the parasite that is Caster ( a victim as a number, Root realised as his buyers didn't look so friendly and they were probably the perps ), warns her about more thugs coming her way, and orders her to finish this again. 

 

She walks quickly up the stairs, because he took the elevator but she's not faring well with those. There are only two ways out of this warehouse ( empty, white ), and it's either the exit Root is currently walking away from, or the windows on top floor. Which is fifth floor and will probably earn him an equally quick but more bloody death. 

 

By the time she reaches the 5th, her legs are strained and the gun is scorching hot on the inner part of her hand, but he looks far worse, only just now realizing his fate and his hands pressuring high on his injury. He turns to look at her and his eyes widen like there's no tomorrow. 

 

( Which there isn't, in his case )

 

"What do you want from me?!"

 

Famous last words. Root tilts her head, and raises the gun. "Honestly," she starts and her voice sounds much less apologetic than her face looks, "I have no idea."

 

She stops and throws a glance at the book. "I just follow orders."

 

This is it. It's the most honest she'll ever get and although there's physical pain spreading on her arm as she aims, she's given up hope that it can be fixed. She'll crash everything she's left, self destruct but at least she can believe that there's more to it. 

 

Then instead of her own gun going off she hears one behind her, and spins around just in time to spot a small dark figure on the top of the stairs with two agents agonizingly screaming on her feet, but she only looks straight. At Root's hand, clutching tightly the most torturous object she could find. Eyes hard, jaw clenched, gun straightened. 

 

"Shaw?" Her voice breaks in the middle and she curses herself for it.

 

Black orbs snap back to hers. They burn holes much bigger than the steel in her palm. 

 

A window shatters. 

 

He jumps. 

 

//

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the 100 kudos and all the views guys! It means truly a lot!


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